


Pen and Dagger

by Inkribbon796



Series: Masks and Maladies [52]
Category: Markiplier fandom - Fandom
Genre: Author typical violence, Birthday Post, Gen, Hallucinations, Illinois is the babysitter this time, superhero au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22586491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkribbon796/pseuds/Inkribbon796
Summary: Madness isn’t always a sudden realization. Sometimes it’s a slow descent, an image here, a flash there. The Author is living the high life, having fun, but his life is a house of cards and the Author cannot control fate forever.
Series: Masks and Maladies [52]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1538131
Kudos: 40





	Pen and Dagger

~::~ THREE YEARS AGO~::~

“Batter up,” the Author shouted as his bat connected with one of the thugs’ heads. He flew back, not getting back up.

“Dammit, Artie,” Illinois rolled his eyes, walking over, “the Old Man told us not to make a mess.”

“I’ll clean it up,” Arthur smiled, pointing the bat towards his direction. “Promise, cross my heart, hope you die.”

“It’s hope  _ to _ die,” Illinois glared at him.

“Yeah, whatever,” the Author grinned.

The two young men, barely into their early twenties were taking down a part of a new gang that had tried to move in on Dark’s territory. They were in an underground basement of a building. A new mall that had been taken over by the gang and all the shops were being extorted for protection.

Needless to say, Dark had been furious and sent his two personal hitmen after the gang. The Author, as he liked Dark’s network to call him, and Illinois were two adopted brothers that Dark trusted with all types of secrets and missions. Mostly Illinois got the information since he was  _ “the responsible brother” _ and the Author was just pointed at people to hurt or kill.

The two young men got to a steel panic door, the last line of defense in the basement.

“Knock knock,” Author used his notebook to make himself inhumanely strong and then beat the steel door down with his bat.

The gangster began shooting at them, but Illinois’s own aura acted like a whip and knocked the bullets away from them. The gangster’s gun clicked uselessly.

Arthur just smiled at him, “You’re supposed to say who’s there.”

“Sweet Mary,” the gangster looked at them in shock. “You two are just kids.”

“Shouldn’ta said that,” Illinois clicked his tongue.

Arthur glared at his book, his pen already moving furiously as he wrote, and the man’s right knee broke in half. The young Author stomped on his broken knee. “Let’s try that again.”

“I’ll give you anything,” he began to desperately beg as the Author began to take out a black leather bound notebook and a pen.

“Oooh,” Arthur smiled, the expression almost shark-like on him. “How much? Can I get my own private island?”

“Yes, yes,” the man begged desperately. “Anything you want?”

“Quit playing with your food,” Illinois jabbed, looking through the man’s desk.

“Fine,” the Author glared back at him, writing something in his book.

Illinois frowned, trying to pull at one of the drawers. “Huh, a locked compartment with no keyhole.”

“Well, start talking,” Arthur ordered, tapping the top of the notebook with his thumb.

“I don’t—” the man started and then the young Author was scribbling something and the man’s whole left arm twisted at an unnatural angle. His elbow and shoulder dislocated as they turned.

With a desperate scream the man tried to grab at his mangled arm but found that his body wouldn’t move. Arthur was just smiling down at him, taking a deep breath.

“Wrong, answer,” the Author grinned. “Let’s dig down deep for some motivation.”

There was another crack, and Illinois just drummed his fingers on the table, knowing that the other man was being a sadistic drama queen, but knowing that if he tried to move to stop it, the situation would only escalate.

“Just tell us where the key is,” Illinois ordered.

“It’s,” the man was stammering through the pain and his tears. “Magnetic . . . lock.”

“Oh, clever,” Illinois dug through another draw to pull out a magnet and maneuvered it under the drawer and it clicked open.

The only thing inside was a USB drive, tucked into the back of the drawer. Illinois held it up, “This it?”

Author smiled and after writing a couple words the man coughed violently. His voice raspy. “No . . . it needs an arming . . . key to be used.”

“So, it’s hardened plastic without it?” the Author smiled.

Smiling back, his first real smile since he’d entered the facility with Arthur, Illinois took out a good sized Bowie knife and carefully pried the USB open, and then stabbed into the circuitry. “Oops.”

The man looked furious beneath what Illinois knew had to be agonizing pain.

“You know,” Arthur looked the gangster over. “I think you would be perfect for my new book.”

“Wha?” the man whimpered.

“Come on, I don’t need the Old Man complaining at me cause of the mess,” Illinois told him.

“If I feed Bim, I’m sure they won’t be too upset,” the Author shrugged and with a couple lines the man’s body seemed to snap back to being whole, the room filling with loud, agonized screams that eventually fell into labored breathing. Then he disappeared, Arthur finishing with an overdramatic flourish of his pen. The young man jumping a little with sadistic glee. “I’m thinking eldritch horror, with a 1940’s gangster vibe.”

“You literally just described the Old Man,” Illinois rolled his eyes.

Arthur let out a very offended gasp. “I would never be so hackneed as to plagiarize  _ someone else’s _ content when I am more than capable of making my own stuff. No, he’s going to be my main character, this monster is going to be more Azathoth and less Nyarlathotep. I bet he lasts five hours before I have to track down a new one.”

Illinois chuckled nervously, “You sadistic prick.”

After a couple uncomfortable jokes at Illinois’s expense, Arthur procrastinated clean up a little bit but finding the staff bathrooms, carelessly stepping over the bodies of the other thugs. Illinois however wasn’t too far away, making sure he couldn’t run and leave the younger of the two with all the grunt work. Using the excuse that he had to go to the bathroom too as a flimsy excuse to keep an eye on him.

Flipping, Illinois off, Arthur walked over to the sink, compulsively making sure his hands were clean and his hair was nice. Then he felt something, almost like it was dribbling from his eyes onto the skin just below it and rolling onto his cheeks like heavy tears.

Confused and concerned, Arthur reached up with his still wet hands and felt  _ nothing _ . Only his own fingers dampening his skin. Quickly looking up, the Actor expected to see dirt or dust, or even his own unexpected tears of irritation.

But he didn’t.

Arthur startled when he looked up, in the reflection was a man in a brown trench coat, blood soaked bandages over his eyes, and a blond streak in his hair. Tears of blood rolling down his face. The reflection smiled, his teeth dripping with blood. The young man jumped, looking around him to find Illinois.

“What’s wrong?” Illinois asked, zipping up his pants.

“There’s,” Arthur began, looking back but only seeing himself again in the mirror.

“Did you see someone?” Illinois asked, looking at the mirror seriously, gently nudging Arthur out of the way. Washing his hands at the same sink, never breaking eye contact with the mirror. “Think it’s the Old Man?”

“No,” Arthur shook his head, even if he looked away the mirror only showed himself looking back. The Author didn’t know what was worse that he had probably only imagined it, the  _ “overactive imagination” _ that his old orphanage had derided him for . . . or that there had really been something. “I saw someone.”

“Was he wearing red?” Illinois put his gloves back on and touched a finger to the mirror, checking if it was an actual mirror or a one-way.

Arthur shook his head again, starting to kick in the stalls to check that they were still empty. “It was some dude with bloody bandages over his eyes, and a trench coat.”

“That’s not good,” Illinois agreed, trying to look for any magic. “Least this creep’s got your flare for the dramatics. Think we should tell the Old Man?”

A  _ “Yes” _ was at the top of his throat, but he ground his teeth down. “No, I can take care of it myself. Don’t need the old geezer motherhening me and locking me in the Void with Bim.”

“Okay,” Illinois allowed. “If shit hits the fan I’ll tell him though. If you’re good right now, let’s start cleaning up. I don’t want to wind up on the Heroes’ watch list.”

“We could join Yan, she looks like she’s having fun,” the Author tried to chuckle, taking meticulous care to dry his hands so that when he pulled out his notebook, his precious leather bound wouldn’t suffer even a damp speck of water damage.

As the two left the bathroom, however, none of them looked down at the floor. Two bloody sneaker prints were right in front of the sink, the print slowly fading away the farther away the young Author got from the sink. Leaving no trace of the incident, except for the festering echo in the young man’s mind as he tried to focus on clean up.


End file.
